


Let Me Pretend

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"...He would have to go one handed at this, just like a lot of things in his life. Little things mostly, sunblock and handling books and…he sighed as he looked at the banjo in the corner of his room."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"He thought he had grown out of categorizing Grif into “my parts” and “his parts”, out of categorizing himself into “my parts” and “ugly robot parts”, but being forced to acknowledge the difference in Grif’s skin was pushing that line of thinking back into his mind. "</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write some dumb hurt/comfort that wasnt too emotionally painful and instead I wrote this mess I am so sorry.

“Can someone help me put this on my back?” Simmons asked, holding out a bottle of sunblock in his robotic hand. They were spending a rare day out of their armor, some holiday or another he was sure someone made up, but it kept them out of armor for longer than any of them have been in a long time and for that he was thankful.

Donut perked up. “I can! I’m really thorough!”

Simmons cringed, but conceded to himself that he had asked it as an open question; he was stupid not to expect this.

“Just…don’t be weird, ok?”

“Don’t worry! I’ll rub you down real good!”

Simmons sighed.

“Here” he said, holding the bottle out to Grif when Donut was finally done, having taken far longer than he reasonably should have. Grif shook his head.

“Naw, I’m good.”

“But you’ll get a sunburn!”

“Skin cancer is no laughing matter Grif.” Donut agreed.

Grif sighed. “Look, I’ll spell this out slow for you ok? I’m from Hawaii. I don’t get sunburns. I don’t need sunblock.”

Simmons shook his head, but didn’t press. He was probably right; Simmons burned like paper, after all, not everyone was as sensitive to sunlight as him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Grif hissed and took in a sharp breath as he put on his shirt.

“Hey man, are you ok?”

Grif shook his head. “I think-ugh-I think I might be having, like, some kind of…delayed reaction to your skin or something.”

Simmons looked worriedly at his friend. Every part that he had donated was an angry shade of red.

“Do your…insides feel ok?”

Grif hissed again. “Yeah, just the skin.”

“Maybe you’re allergic to something? Or, maybe I’m allergic to something?”

“Does it work like that?”

“I’m not sure. C’mon, I’m taking you to Doc.”

“I though you wanted to help me!”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Doc put away his scanner and whistled.

“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunburn this bad before. I actually think I’ve treated burns from plasma weapons that weren’t this bad. What did you do?”

“No way. I don’t have a sunburn; I’m Hawaiian remember?!”

“Grif, think about it. The only parts of you that got burned are the parts you got from me; I’ve gotten sunburns on my face through the visor of my helmet before.” Simmons was exasperated, both at Grif and himself for not realizing that this would happen.

Doc got up, far too cheerful. “I have a few things I think will help, let me just get some hypodermic needles…or is that for ringworm? Well, I’m sure it can’t hurt! Be right back!”

Simmons and Grif shared a knowing look, and quickly ran off before Doc could try and “help”.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Simmons dragged Grif into his room and shut the door, bringing a bottle out of his bathroom and sitting on the bed behind Grif.

“What’s that for?”

“Aloe Vera; it’ll make it hurt less, and you won’t be able to reach your back anyways. Maybe you’ll complain a little less now.”

“I have not been complaining! I’ve just been blaming you for something that’s clearly your fault!”

“It was my skin Grif, but it’s your body now! You’re the one responsible for taking care of it. Do you think I like the fact I need to recalibrate my arm and eye every month? No, but I learned how to do it because this is the body I have to live with. You know I get sunburns easily, you know you have my skin, and you could have easily figured out that you needed to put on sunblock.”

Even as he yelled at the man, he was opening the bottle and pouring some out onto his human hand. He would have to go one handed at this, just like a lot of things in his life. Little things mostly, sunblock and handling books and…he sighed as he looked at the banjo in the corner of his room.

“Jesus that’s cold!” Grif shouted, flinching away from Simmon’s hand and pulling him out of his musings.

“Can’t be helped.” He lied, grinning. He could’ve easily warmed it in his hand, or at least warned Grif. But where’s the fun in that?

They were silent for some time, comfortably silent at first, because there was nothing to say. Simmons felt sort of weird exploring Grif’s body like this; of course he had explored it before, much more intimately than now, but that was different. That was Grif’s body as a whole, that was in a dark room, that was tinged with the haze of lust and sex and desperation. This was different. Simmons felt almost as though he was having an out of body experience. He thought he had grown out of categorizing Grif into “my parts” and “his parts”, out of categorizing himself into “my parts” and “ugly robot parts”, but being forced to acknowledge the difference in Grif’s skin was pushing that line of thinking back into his mind. He knew almost all of the marks he saw; small scars from childhood injuries, big scars from military injuries, that birthmark on his back he used to forget he had sometimes because he never saw it (but now he sees it all the time, and it barely registers as his anymore). Amongst these were new scars, ones he didn’t recognize, either from the surgery or the events after, because these were Grif’s now and those were his scars.  

They didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

He lingered on the calloused fingers of his old hand. He had learned to play that instrument on a whim; who would’ve thought he would miss it so much.

Grif was clearly relaxing into Simmons’s touch, growing used to the chill as it took the edge off his pain.

“You’re going to have a lot more freckles when this heals.” Simmons said, finally.

“Hm?” Grif questioned; he was half way asleep at this point.

“When I get bad burns, I always get new freckles after. Like, an insane amount. Just…so you know.”

Grif nodded, and the silence returned, somehow heavier than before. Still not awkward, just…weighted. Simmons turned Grif around to do his face, careful as he could be around Grif’s eye ( _bright green, my eye, my good eye, the eye that didn’t have the astigmatism of course because that’s the side Grif needed because Sarge didn’t know because the universe hates Dick Simmons and the universe hates Dexter Grif and the universe hates all of us here in this god damned box canyon why did I join the army this is literally hell we are all dead and this is our hell_ ).

He felt like he was going to be sick. 

“You ok there?”

Simmons shook his head and looked down. He was shaking, he realized. When had he started shaking?

“Yeah…no…I need…I need it to be dark right now” he breathed, gulping thickly.

Grif nodded and turned off the light, plunging the room into moderate darkness. The unshifting sun still peaked through the curtains, and Simmons pretended the spot of red light was from a digital clock or a charging phone and not his goddamn face. The room was silent, the room was too silent and the hum of machinery and whirring fans was deafening even though it was so quiet it was possible Grif didn’t even hear it. He was breathing heavily and he heard that too, and loudest of all was the absence of his pounding heart despite his increased pulse, because he doesn't have a heart because Grif has his heart ( _I did it for Grif it's going to be fine but he hates it too I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up I should have let him die he feels the same way I feel it would have been kinder to let him die just kill me already I'm sorry)_

His lips crashed with Grif’s, slowly at first but still desperately. He’s not sure why, it just felt like the right response to the anxiety brewing in his stomach. The kisses burned, equal parts love and apology and desperation. He needed to do something, and he needed to do it now. He needed to turn his brain off, just for a little while, because he was a man who loved to analyze and now it was coming to bite him in the ass and he needed at least to focus on something else. He settled on Grif’s mouth on his.

He's still thinking.

He decides he needs to create a lie.

Simmons locked his arm in place; enough power was running to it to support the weight, but he could not move it or feel with it.

He almost can't believe what he wants to think feels like a better option but, strangely, it does.

 _I lost my arm in an accident_ he tells himself. It is horrible, it was a tragedy, and he definitely does  _not_  have a whirring clunky robot arm that tears book pages and breaks banjo strings and bruises his boyfriend every time they have sex.

Grif notices what Simmons has done to his arm, but does not say anything. He lets Simmons kiss him, lets him pretend, because neither of them is quite on the correct side of sanity and sometimes you just need to let things happen.

Grif threads his hand through Simmons’s hair, the other grabbing Simmon’s human arm and restraining it tightly against his own back. Simmons moans at the sensations, eyes closed tightly and focusing hard on lying to himself for just a moment longer, telling himself when he opens his eyes he won’t cast a red light on surroundings, he wont be able to read his boyfriend’s vitals, the whirring is his laptop charging next to his bed and he just needs to clean out the fans.  _D_ _on’t ruin it, not yet, let me pretend, I'm going to break I'm gonna break this feeling is going to kill me let me sleep let me die turn me off I'm a fucking robot just pull the plug turn me on when you need me it's fine make it stop make it stop it keeps fucking whirring it's inside my brain I can't hear myself think don't think don't think don't think I'm gonna die and I'm ok with that just make it go faster or I'll go insane first please please please-_

“Do you need me to blindfold you?”

Simmons nods, whimpering slightly, eyes shut even tighter.

 _He’s being kinky_ he tries to tell himself, trying the lie out again, but his subconscious knows that this way he can’t open his eyes and spoil it all, he just needs to pretend for a few more moments just needs to go to sleep in his boyfriend’s arms like this and dream it were true. _I'll be fine in the morning, tonight we'll fuck and we'll sleep like a normal couple we are a normal couple we're normal we're normal I'm normal I'm missing an arm I'm not a cyborg stop thinking that kill me kill me rip off my arm do something the whirring wont_ _stop_ -. Grif returns moments later with something, a tie or a bandanna or _anything_ , Simmons doesn't care right now.

Grif ties the blindfold and lays Simmons down flat on his bed. Immidiately some of the tension he had been holding onto went away, one less thing to worry about. _Grif can see for me, I don't need to see. I'm safe here, the world is dark and no one else is here but us._ He repeated this to himself like a mantra,  _I'm safe I'm safe Grif is here the world is dark and I am safe._  Grif hands a bottle of lube to the man, and orders him to prep himself. Simmons complies as best he can, unbuttoning his pants and shifting them and his underwear down as well as he could one handed and blindfolded. He twists the cap off and squirts some awkwardly onto his finders with his palm, spreading his legs as wide as he can without being able to grab hold of them. Simmons tries to reach down and prep himself, tries to follow orders and please his boyfriend, but his hand keeps slipping and his legs wont spread enough on their own and his fingers cant reach deep enough and it doesn’t even look funny, it looks sad.

“I can’t-my legs, they wont-“ frustration edging his voice. Grif lent a hand, holding Simmons’s legs spread for him as he slides in one finger, then two, then three, keening, scissoring them and spreading himself for Grif.

“Remember, don’t finger yourself, just open yourself up.” Grif whispers, voice lower and quieter, almost a growl. Simmons whines and goes slowly, hoping Grif will decide he’s open enough soon.

Grif does decide, fairly soon, and pulls Simmons’s fingers out without warning. He bucks up and whines, but the fingers are quickly replaced with the tip of Grif’s cock.

His pace starts out slow and leisurely, almost agonizing, but picks up quickly. His fingers are threaded through Simmons’s hair, pulling occasionally, sucking and biting around his collar bone. He does everything the way Simmons likes, because he knows what he is trying to do. They've both done this before, it's how they started banging in the first place, just weeks after the surgery, going insane and needing to loose themselves and forget. 

And Simmons _is_  finally loosing himself to the pleasure of it all, of being restrained and ordered and blinded, and he willingly turns himself over. He finally can't think, can only focus on the now, only on sensations and feelings and how good Grif makes him feel. In the now he cannot feel his left arm ( _it isn’t there Dick you can’t feel it because it isn’t there_ ), he cannot hear any machinery over his and Grif’s moaning, he cannot suddenly ask himself why he isn’t covered in sweat by now, cannot ask himself much of anything. He can only whine and moan and claw one handed at Grif’s back, ignoring his hisses of pain as he claws over the sunburn ( _what sunburn only I  get sunburns he doesn’t I  just scratched him too hard I must need to trim my nails_ ) .

Grif grabs Simmons’s dick and makes a few long, slow tugs, drawing out long moans from the man beneath him. He’s not going to last much longer, neither of them is, and he makes Simmons cum first by jerking him off suddenly and roughly. Grif thrusts a few more times, Simmons whining at the oversensitive stimulation, and he cums too, pulling out right before and not caring too much about the sheets that weren’t even his anyways.

Grif positions himself behind Simmons, spooning him in the cramped bed that was not meant for two fully grown men who, while chubby and skinny respectively by military standards, were still clearly in the military.

Simmons is still shaking and Grif pulls him in close, realizing that he’s been crying. Tears only fall from one eye, his human one, soaking into the blindfold. Grif goes to untie it, but Simmons stops him.

“Just…let me sleep, please.” he begs.  _Don't let me see I don't want to see yet I'm not ready to look let me sleep I'm ok now let me sleep please please please please please._ Simmons chanted the word please over and over, softly, barely audible. 

Grif holds Simmons tighter, the chanting falling away as he slowly fell asleep. Grif switched his arm back on when he knew for sure Simmons was asleep, knowing if he slept like this he would wake up sore, and smoothed his hair. It was not often Grif got to watch Simmons fall asleep, and of those times it was alarmingly often in situations such as this.

They both liked to believe they had made peace with their bodies, joked about being a Frankenstein and a cyborg, took advantage of it when they could. “You have my heart,” Simmons had told him once, mockingly sappy, “and most of my other internal organs”. They laughed a lot at that one.

They still didn’t look in the mirror very often.

They still had days where they couldn’t look each other in the face.

He still had moments where he wanted nothing more than to claw his own chest open at the jagged seams and pull every organ out one by one, because he remembered they weren’t his and suddenly he became hyper-aware of their constant noise and movement and his skin itched all over and his body was on fire, and he would scratch at the scars until Simmons had to physically hold his arms to his sides.

There were still nights where Simmons would just sit in his room for hours and try to play that stupid banjo again, trying to prove something to himself because it was the principle of the thing, desperately trying different calibration settings on his arm because something was bound to work and be gentle enough not to snap the strings, he was sure of it, he just had to keep trying, and Grif would wake up at 2 AM to hear the twanging of another snapped string and desperate frustrated swearing, over and over until he dragged Simmons into his room and forced him to sleep.

Grif placed a gentle kiss right where the metal met skin on Simmons’s cheek. Simmons hated when Grif did this, hated when he focused any undue attention to these parts. Grif did it anyways. He was shaking less now, and Grif was exhausted.

“God I hate the army” he sighed to no one in particular, a sort of tired acceptance in his voice. He held his boyfriend protectively and quickly joined him in uneasy sleep.


End file.
